Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  Heather launched upward, slamming into Zaahir. He stumbled back, his shot pinging harmlessly off the concrete. She flew at Zaahir, using the palm of her hand to smash under his chin, using her elbows, her knees to pummel him. Zaahir retreated, arms up to shield his face. Heather leapt for the gun, still in his hand.

  Zaahir swung the butt of the pistol across his body, knocking her arm aside. His other fist smashed into the side of her head. Heather faltered. Zaahir grabbed her by the front of her shirt.

  Jace shook his head to clear it. No, that wasn’t ringing in his ears. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The cavalry.

  His brave Heather reached across Zaahir’s fist, tangled in her collar, and twisted his fingers so he was forced to release her, then pressed her thumbs down along the back of his hand. The wrist lock brought Zaahir to his knees with a snarl of outrage. Quick as a snake, he wrapped his forearm under her knee and yanked. She tumbled to the ground. He was on her in a flash, his gun jammed up under her chin, forcing her head back.

  Jace raced toward them, shouting, fearing he was too slow, too late, knowing part of him would die if Zaahir pulled the trigger. With no finesse, with no thought other than to get him off Heather, he slammed into Zaahir like a linebacker.

  The handgun discharged next to his ear, deafening him. He rolled over Zaahir and was on his feet in a flash. Zaahir rocketed up; Jace kicked the wrist holding the gun, and it skittered across the concrete. The terrorist cell leader lunged for him, wrapping both arms around his waist and shoving him back. Jace brought his elbow down between the other man’s shoulder blades; he responded by slamming his fist into Jace’s gut once, twice . . . Jace twisted out of Zaahir’s hold and aimed a side kick at the man’s knee. He missed but pivoted to kick again, higher, landing his blow straight to the asshole’s family jewels. He let his rage wash over him like a cleansing river, his focus sharp and his goal clear: to decimate the man who put his hands on Heather and fear in her eyes.

  Zaahir staggered backwards, bending double. But oh, holy hell . . . he wasn’t just bending; he was also reaching, into the waistband of his pants. For Jace’s own Sig Sauer. Jace leapt for him. Just as he reached the terrorist, he heard the gunshot.

  The pain was immediate and overwhelming. Red blossomed across his chest. He reached for the wound with some idea of applying pressure, only to find his arms wouldn’t respond. He sank to his knees, struggling to stay conscious, gaze instinctively searching for Heather. Where was she? Was she safe?

  He found her gaping in horror in his direction. Don’t worry about it, he wanted to say. I’ll be fine. But his vocal cords weren’t working, either. I love you, he thought. Maybe she knew. He wanted her to know.

  Zaahir stepped into view, blocking Heather from his sight. That pissed him off. If he was going to kick it, her beautiful face was the last thing he wanted to see. Jace reached for the Sig, still clutched in Zaahir’s evil hands, but the terrorist squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Forty-­Five

  September 11. 3:55 P.M.

  Recreation Center, Dogwood Beach Housing Area

  EVERYTHING IN HEATHER FROZE. Jace had been shot. There was blood everywhere. He was on his knees because he could no longer stand.

  Zaahir was going to kill Jace with his own gun.

  Time slowed down. She seemed to have all the time in the world to dive across the pavement, scoop up the terrorist’s PHP VM-­17 pistol, and roll out into a crouching firing position. Time to steady her aim, time to squeeze the trigger.

  The first shot hit him high in the shoulder. He jerked, but did not fall. The next blew a hole in his face. Heather pulled the trigger over and over, until the steady click-­click-­click finally penetrated the red haze in her brain, and she realized the magazine was empty. Fifteen rounds.

  Zaahir sprawled in an expanding pool of blood.

  Nevertheless, she crept up on his body, ready for him to leap to his feet and grab hold of her. His sightless gaze reassured her. Backing away from the spreading puddle, she turned and dropped to her knees beside Jace.

  “Jace? Jace, look at me!” She gripped the bottom of his T-­shirt, already torn, and ripped it further, trying to get a good look at his wound. The bullet had penetrated his upper chest, above and to the left of his heart. Blood poured from his torn flesh. The gory ruin terrified her.

  She gagged.

  Forcing herself straight, she fought down her nausea. She turned him in order to lay him flat, alarmed at how easily he fell. Placing both hands over his wound, she leaned her palms into it, applying pressure. “You stay with me, Jace, do you hear me?” she said. “Don’t you dare leave me!”

  Jace’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Wouldn’t dare,” he managed. He tried to raise a hand to her face. She caught it and lifted it to her cheek. His blood and her tears mingled together.

  “You know I love you, right?” Her tears dripped onto his hand.

  He moved his head in what could have been a nod. He shivered, going into shock.

  Police cars and an ambulance veered around the corner, their sirens piercing. They drove almost up on top of them, and suddenly the loading area was swarming with ­people. Firm hands pulled her away.

  She let them separate her from Jace, weeping, panic freezing her insides. The medics palpated the area around the bullet hole, packed it, started fluids, and shifted Jace into a neck collar and spinal board, just to be safe.

  “His systolic is above eighty,” one told her. “That’s the good news. I’ve called for a life flight. We need to get him to a trauma center.”

  Heather crept back to his side. He was still conscious, barely, hanging on until he saw her. This time, she got a faint smile.

  “Love . . . you,” he whispered.

  Heather smoothed her hand over his short hair. “Save your strength,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. You live for me, do you hear me, soldier? You don’t get to swoop into my life, then leave me.”

  Trevor appeared on the loading dock, hobbling, with a medic hovering at his elbow in case he fell. He made it over to the ambulance under his own steam. “How is he?” he asked.

  The other medic scanned the sky. “Better if we get him to the hospital,” he said. “His blood pressure is dropping. I’ve called for an air ambulance.”

  The Blackhawk medical helicopter took five and a half minutes to arrive. Heather knew, because she alternately scanned the sky and checked her watch. Jace slipped into unconsciousness as the medic labored to keep him stabilized.

  The flight medics loaded him onto the helicopter. Medics on the air ambulances were qualified combat medics, she knew. Trained specifically to stabilize and treat battle-­wounded men. That didn’t stop her from wringing her hands after she scrambled onto the bird behind him. Trevor had been put on another stretcher bed, and the third medic immobilized his wrist and checked his ribs for breaks. She barely spared him a glance. He would live.

  So would Jace. He had to.

  Running her hands over her knees, she tried to still her trembling. Someone draped a blanket around her shoulders. One of the medics knelt in front of her. “I’m going to cut your pants at the knee, okay?” he asked. “I need to check your injuries.”

  What injuries? She looked down in surprise. Her jeans were torn and bloody. It must have happened when she’d fallen, when Zaahir dragged her away from the injured Jace. “I’m fine,” she said. “Take care of Captain Reed.”

  The medic patted her hand. “We’re doing everything we can for him. He’s as stabilized as he can be until we get to the trauma center. Time to check you out.”

  Heather pulled away and went to sit next to Jace. “Later.”

  The medic hesitated. “We’re one minute out.”

  She stroked Jace’s hair and held his hand. There wasn’t anything else she could do.

  The Blackhawk landed o
n the roof of the al-­Zadr base hospital. Several medical staffers waited on the roof; they moved Jace to a gurney and rushed inside. Heather tried to follow him, but a nurse guided her, instead, to a curtained-­off area in the emergency room, where she ordered Heather, kindly but firmly, to remove her pants. Heather almost screeched her frustration.

  “He’s going into surgery, darlin’ ” the nurse said. “You got a wait ahead of you anyways. Might as well clean out those abrasions.”

  Sighing, Heather did as she was told. Truth was, the scrapes stung. They weren’t serious; the nurse cleaned and bandaged them. Refusing her offer of “something for the pain,” Heather instead began to pace.

  Chapter Forty-­Six

  September 11. 8:00 P.M.

  Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

  HEATHER SAT IN Trevor’s visitor chair, not saying much. Until someone updated her on Jace’s condition, there wasn’t much to say. The bullet had smashed into his upper chest, missing his collarbone and his heart by just a few inches. Her worry hung palpably in the air.

  “He’s still in surgery,” she said, as though Trevor didn’t already know that.

  “We’ll know something soon,” he soothed, as though he hadn’t repeated the words half a dozen times already. He reached for the water pitcher, but Heather beat him to it, pouring it for him and holding it to his mouth. He gave a half grimace and took it from her. “Broken ribs are a pain in the arse,” he said, “but my arm works just fine.”

  “Your left one, anyway,” she said. His right wrist rested in a heavy splint until the swelling went down, at which time it would be put in a plaster cast to heal. He didn’t seem to appreciate her fussing, so she began to pace instead. “Why isn’t anyone telling us anything?”

  “Patience, ducks,” he said. “Still in surgery is good. Still in surgery means they’re fixing him up like new.”

  Heather threw herself back into the visitor’s chair, arms crossed over her chest as she slumped back. “I know.”

  The Defense Threat Reduction Agency was on its way to take charge of the phosgene in the oil truck. Heather and Trevor had both been furious to discover LTC Louis Jowat, in charge of security into and around the parade grounds, had intercepted and overridden Shelby’s order to evacuate the military and civilian visitors at the parade ground. The president had already started his speech, and Jowat decided, unilaterally, the danger at the recreation center was too far from the site of the president’s visit to pose a threat, and the president would be gone before any threat from the recreation areas could affect him. The Secret Ser­vice was livid, demanding Jowat be court-­martialed for endangering the life of the President of the United States. Heather wasn’t too broken up about it. The man had made serious errors in judgment.

  A figure appeared in his doorway. Heather shot to her feet. “How is he? Is he out of surgery? Can I see him?” It was not, however, Dr. Denby.

  It was Shelby.

  Trevor sat up, chuffing out a pained noise. Heather shot him a chiding look.

  “Your own fault for refusing pain meds,” she said.

  Shelby trickled a gray silk scarf through her fingers several times. Finally, she took a few small steps into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No. Not at all. Absolutely not,” Trevor said.

  She wouldn’t look at him, not directly. Instead, she crossed to Heather and hugged her. “I’m glad you’re all right. Both of you,” she added, but still wouldn’t meet Trevor’s gaze.

  “We’re waiting for Jace to get out of surgery,” said Heather, returning the hug. Her eyes filled with tears; she couldn’t help it. What would she do if Jace died? Part of her would die, too.

  Shelby looked her over, and she realized she still wore her torn jeans. The blood caking it made the denim stiff and uncomfortable. She hardly cared. No way was she leaving before she’d seen Jace.

  Shelby wandered to the window and looked out. The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the hospital grounds. Heather glanced askance at Trevor, and he gave a small nod. Yes, please leave.

  She started toward the door. “I’m going to get some coffee. And then I’m going to go down to surgery and see if there’s any news.”

  Shelby turned sharply. “Oh . . . no, please. Don’t let me displace you.”

  Heather hesitated. Which friend did she sacrifice for the other?

  “You need to stretch your legs, I’m sure,” Trevor said. “You’ve been cooped up in here for quite a while.”

  She gave a small shrug, cast an apologetic look Shelby’s way, and went out the door.

  “Nice view,” she heard Shelby say. The window looked out over the parking lot, as it happened. The view stunk. Heather wandered down to the nurses’ station.

  “Any word on Jace Reed?” she asked. The nurse, an older woman with steel gray hair, picked up the receiver and dialed down to the surgical ward without a single comment or reprimand. Heather had asked her the same question twenty times in the past two and a half hours.

  “They’re still operating,” she reported back a moment later. “It’s likely going to be another hour, at least.”

  Breathing deeply, reminding herself that the continued surgery meant that Jace still lived, Heather thanked the patient woman. More coffee was last thing she needed—­five cups already swirled in her bloodstream—­so she walked back to Trevor’s room.

  She leaned against the wall opposite the doorway, trying to tune out the conversation between Shelby and Trevor. She couldn’t.

  “I bet the State Department’s in chaos,” Trevor was saying. “A lot of political fallout from this.”

  “Yes, it’s crazy. The Azakistani woman, Aa’idah Karim, came to the embassy, asking for asylum. I think she’ll get it, too.” Pause. “Look, Trevor . . . what happened last week . . . us, um, you know. After the Festival Gala. It was a mistake. I’m sure you’ve realized it, too. So it shouldn’t be a problem, um, for us to . . . just forget it ever happened, right?” The pause felt weighted to Heather. “I mean, it’s not like our paths are likely to cross again anyway, right?” Faint desperation tinged her tone.

  Heather cursed the poor timing. Two broken ribs, head split open, broken wrist, gunshot to the shoulder . . . Trevor was lucky to be alive. And Shelby chose to dump him now, while he was still in the hospital?

  Trevor sighed. “I did not leave your bed to go to Christina’s,” he said. “She was in trouble.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Shelby spoke over him. “That’s not why . . .”

  Heather rubbed between her eyes, trying to dislodge some of the pressure there. Not long ago, she might have run from a relationship, too. Now, she just wanted Jace to live. It was vital that he live. Little mattered beyond that right now.

  She would do anything, anything at all, for him.

  Marine Gunnery Sergeant Hugo Bisantz of the Embassy Security Group strolled up the hall, out of uniform in casual slacks and a black, button-­down shirt.

  “Evening, ma’am,” he said politely.

  Until that moment, Heather had not registered that Shelby was dressed in a short, flirty skirt. Dangling earrings. Heels. Careful makeup. And apparently not for Trevor.

  “Are you here to visit Captain Reed, Sergeant?” she asked pointedly.

  “I’m waiting for Shelby, ma’am.”

  Heather’s heart sank. At least the Marine had the sense to stay out of the hospital room. A tense silence had settled inside. Just as Heather straightened from the wall to go rescue either or both of them, Shelby spoke again, her voice overly bright.

  “Well, I just wanted to check in to see how you were doing. Ambassador Stanton inquired, so now I can give him a firsthand report.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” Trevor’s voice grew an edge.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt,” she said. “Truly I am.”<
br />
  “Not your fault,” Trevor said. “Not any of it.” He sighed, sounding tired.

  Shelby hovered by the door, clearly eager to leave. “Goodbye, Major Carswell,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  But as Shelby passed through the doorway, Heather saw the anguish, the unshed tears, the sorrow in her eyes. And even as Hugo placed a hand at the small of her back to lead her away, she glanced longingly back toward Trevor.

  Sometimes life just sucked.

  Chapter Forty-­Seven

  September 14. 3:15 P.M.

  Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

  JACE KNEW INSTANTLY he was in a hospital. If the familiar smell of antiseptic and Band-­Aids didn’t orient him, the wretched throbbing did. He flexed various muscles to check the severity of the damage. And immediately stopped.

  Oh, yeah. He’d been shot. Pain in the . . . well, chest, in this case.

  He opened his eyes. Why did they have to paint hospital walls stark white? And keep the lights so bright? Squinting a little, he looked around at the tubes and wires attaching him to various machines. Bandages covered his chest and shoulder. And then he forgot those trivial details.

  Heather slept, her head near his thigh. She had pulled the visitor’s chair close to him and sort of doubled over to get close enough to lay her head on his bed. It looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t wake her. He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness; each time, the gladness in her eyes enveloped him. She stroked his hair, held his hand. Coffee cups littered the table and floor, too. How long had he been out?

  She stirred, as though sensing his wakeful state. He couldn’t not touch her; he shifted his hand by increments to her hair. It had fallen out of whatever twist she’d put it in and cascaded over her shoulder onto the bleached white sheets. Exhaustion smudged her elfin face, streaks of dried tears leaving a path of clean down her grimy cheeks. Her eyes opened, lit up when she saw him.